The Night the Day Fell
by ducanjames241
Summary: A small Port town is troubled and a cunning bar owner plots its defense.  Unfinished, first 3 chapters


**The Night the Day Fell ** _Duncan James _

**Stage 1: The Storm **

The brown double-doors of the bar flew open to reveal the medium-built, mop-haired silhouette of Carson, heaving in the doorway.

'I gave you fair warning, and now I go to kill that man. He pokes and jibes me like a schoolboy afraid to retaliate. I will not turn my head or avert my eyes from meeting his again.' The man was clearly livid, even with the darkness at his back. 'I don't need to fucking explain myself to you.'

He turned and, heavy-footed, made way for the blueish building some distance down the thoroughfare. At the bar itself the owner, Ted Whorley, watched Carson as he passed the front windowpane. Then like a shot he slammed down the dirty rag in his hand.

'Jesus Christ.'

Hustling out of the bar and onto the dirt of the main road in the town Ted caught Carson as he walked. Gripped by the collar the drunk was pulled into the alley adjoining Ted's bar and thrust against the wood panelling.

'You do fucking listen to me because I am the only thing keeping that man from outright destroying this town. You will not kill him, you will stay at my bar until I decide you may leave.' Carson gurgled childishly against the grip on his throat before making claims as to the necessity for killing. 'No fucking killing tonight! I can, on a good day, just scarcely tolerate your company but let me say this; every person with a business or operation is valuable to me and my cause, even one as… yours. Now I need to know, do you think you can swallow this bullshit and manage your business? Or am I left with yet another fucking task I'm to heap onto my already overflowing plate?' Carson kept still, eyeing Ted with tearful eyes and taking small shivering breaths.

'Do you want me to sign the deed over to you?' he said, voice wavering on the verge of breaking. Ted turned back to him and thrust his finger at the man as he said 'No I don't want the fucking deed you complete fuck-up, how obvious a move would that be when I already own half the street? No, you are going to stay in your shop and keep up appearances while I feed you instructions like a farmer feeds a helpless lamb.' Carson sank to the mud, weeping hard. 'I'm so sorry Mr. Whorley, I just…can't…take it.' Ted stepped over him disgusted and walked back into the bar. Pete was there, waiting at one of the tables as Ted re-entered. 'Ted?' he asked. Ted was silent until he was back behind the bar resting his hands on the bench before he answered.

'Carson is outside. He's crying,' Pete smiled, Ted went on, 'Worryin' all about his little ole' business and all the while heaping on me so many problems I feel like my legs physically buckle from the weight on my mind.' He paused briefly 'Go outside. Not for a few minutes. If he's still there crying he's lost all use to me. If he's still there in a few minutes time kill him.' Pete nodded and stood from the table, making for his room upstairs and his guns. Ted stayed, leaning on the bar, staring into space. Things like this were beginning to evade his control. The events these days were dancing away from him like sprites, no longer in his control they danced to another man's melody…Lyle Tommin.

Ted looked at his father, who by chance was named Kyle, and whom he had adored whilst the man had lived. He now looked back at Ted in the level gaze he kept for business times and which had been captured, truly as Ted remembered it, by some artist he couldn't recall. The only indication of its creator were the initials "H.D.C" on the piece. Pete reappeared at the top of the stairs minutes later. He had tied his dreadlocked hair into a warrior-like ponytail and wore his tan vest and jacket. Ted noted the gun holstered in Pete's jacket as he walked past. 'Take him round the back, the meeting will be starting soon,' Ted yelled as an afterthought. Pete passed through the double-doors hoping to all hell Carson had pulled himself together and left the alley. He turned the corner and found the sorry sight of Carson still crying against the side of the building. Pete stepped forwards, hand straying to gun, when voices on the thoroughfare stayed him. Two men were coming towards the pub, Ted's guests. Pete hurriedly made Carson scarce, still alive, and sped back to the entrance to greet the guests. Behind him Ted had finished pulling two tables together and setting chairs at each of them. He would have to kill Carson later or his incompetence would hamper Ted's efforts further and his plan could be jeopardised. The meeting started quickly. It was an informal affair and as such Ted had provided no drinks or food for the guests. He hoped to attract their full attention and make all that was said as concise and brief as possible. 'My reason for bringing you all here is this: I have a plan for Tommin.' He paused for a moment. 'It's been like a chess game these last few weeks, and we've all skirted certain conversation topics and tiptoed lightly around particular characters. But tonight Tommin's command of our beloved Port concludes.' He paused again, unsmiling.

'If I might interject briefly, Ted,' one of the men to Ted's right spoke. He wore a beaten suit similarly aged as Ted's own but with no pinstripes, a simple black suit. Ted nodded and the man stood. 'My brother Ignatius just contacted me. He works at the docks in Port Darfel. He called as I was leaving my house, he told me that to the Eastern side of the dock there has been an increase in activity.'

'What news is this to us?'

'Ted, we've done business with Ignatius before. You met him once, if you recall. He is trustworthy.'

'Yes?'

'And, he says that part of the dock belongs to men in Troy Tommin's pocket. That's Lyle's brother. He says the movement from that side of the dock rivals the flurries of anthills and beehives. He also says that talk from the pubs is that the equipment they pack is coming here…along with scores of men.'

Outside Pete stood at the double doors as the meeting progressed. Up the thoroughfare a shout roused him. It came from a young woman walking down the street. She had confidence about her almost as brisk and focused as Ted himself. Pete recognised her, Carson's daughter Veronica. She had history with Ted. Nothing romantic but for some reason, they both kept hidden, Ted flatly refused to converse with her face-to-face and disallowed her entry to his bar. Pete watched her stride to him, where she stopped. 'My father cannot attend Mr. Whorley's meeting tonight, I'm here to represent him.'

Pete sighed heavily, the air chilling his breath. They would wait together, in the chilled night until the meeting ended, when Pete would have to relay everything Ted told him about the meeting to Veronica. She watched unhappily as Pete nodded slowly and returned to leaning on the wall, staring at the stars.

'Why did he call the meeting?' She asked. Pete silently handed her a copy of the note Ted had written to each of the guests in the bar. It was simple: "I've devised a solution to our problems regarding the shipping business Tommin. I will be outlining the details in my bar in thirty minutes." Veronica crumpled the note in her hand and threw it away. Back in the meeting Ted finally finished cursing and looked back at Jerome. By now the man truly regretted being the messenger, fearing Ted would harm him, or worse still, that Pete be called in. Ted looked over his shoulder at his father again, this time as if to say "What now?".

'So far this warning has been very vague. Was there anything else your brother said about the activities in his dock? Preferably anything regarding the apparent nature of the equipment and the men? Were they builders or soldiers? And did he mention how long they might be before they're ready?' Ted said, almost snarling at the older man.

'As to their n…nature, Ignatius says they were very protective. Any of their open crates were covered with canvas and he could never get close enough to see inside them as the security was ramped up twofold as soon as things started to happen. As to the men, he likened them to soldiers at camp. None of them spoke to him, save the guards telling him to depart, none too politely. And they walked like statues come to life, stiff and lacking any feeling in their eyes. But he also said to tell you that this shouldn't necessarily mean they're soldiers.' Jerome answered cautiously.

'Well it's no fucking evidence against the notion, is it?' Ted said quickly losing his temper.

'Please, Ted. This is a town, Tommin can't hope to take it by force. It's a ridiculous notion, even the government would step in, not to mention the numerous other towns and villages nearby.' Another of the meeting members said. Sadly, in what was becoming a scarily consistent occurrence in Ted's life, the words intended to quell his temper instead fuelled it.

'I cannot believe the words that I just heard, you thick fucking bastard. What did I say as soon as Tommin took over the docks? With an operation as large as his, men can be brought in by the boatful and marked up as "workers and general labourers". All the while Tommin amasses a literal army with which to dominate our small town and in all likelihood do with what he wishes, which, amongst other things, will probably involve taking control of all significant businesses in the entire port.' He paused for effect, then as if remembering continued 'Oh and did I mention that to do that he'll probably murder all of us?'

**Stage 2: The Innocent Cloud **

Pete sat uncomfortably in Veronica's office. It was around 10, the meeting had dispersed and Pete had spent the last half hour listening to Ted recount the meeting. 'So what do they plan to do?' Veronica said closing the door.

Pete looked up, 'It's more what they plan not to do. Ted's original plan for Tommin is off, for now at least. They intend to keep tabs on the activity in Darfel but since they don't know what will happen Ted wants to avoid any outright assumptions or accusations until the ship hits town.'

'So we wait?' Veronica looked unsatisfied. 'Not exactly. Ted asked all the members to renew contact with any "friends" in nearby towns and villages,' Pete answered. 'Soldiers…' Veronica translated.

'Militia…' Pete conceded. She stood and began pacing the room. 'I cannot believe this,' she touched her head as she spoke 'he struts around throwing orders at the people of this town like he has clever plans and schemes but something big, like this, comes along and he thinks the same thing every other fucking male thinks when they're threatened.'

Pete had been thinking the same thing as he walked over. Ted was a rare man, Pete wasn't blind, but after six months of working for him Pete still couldn't quite figure him out. For a few days or even weeks Ted might be solely focused on some problem with another owner. His mind would be in full-swing churning out plots, Pete would be literally running from one building to another handling dealings or negotiations while Ted himself put everything he could into it while still tending the bar most nights and some days. Then, from time to time he would do something totally unexpected. In the early days Ted had become focused on the diner just off the main street, a place called Harry's, aptly named after the owner. It had something to do with an illegal gambling operation Ted suspected to be going on in the diner after-hours. He'd had Pete watch the place at night until finally a small group of people had left through the back of the adjoining building late one night. Ted was nearly happy, though to the new Pete it was a less angry version of the man. Pete had woken the next morning prepared for whatever mission Ted now had for him to take over the diner. Ted had other things on his mind though. "This isn't the right time to start manipulating the diner, other things have to be dealt with," he'd said to Pete. The new project suddenly became the cemetery owner and replacing him with someone trustworthy. It seemed senseless to Pete then but over time he was further exposed to the way Ted operated and began to suspect that it was his way of maintaining a state of constant action. It seemed like Ted was only happy when he was overloaded with more crises than he could handle, which brought him back to anger. It had been spring when Pete had first arrived in the town and had to come to terms with the way life in this new town operated. He reflected on this as he walked back to the bar on the back streets of the town, taking his time. The air was clearer tonight, it was autumn now and it had rained earlier clearing the air, making it crisper. The stars in particular were amazing, winking brighter than Pete knew they could. Walking idly past the diner, staring at the stars Pete suddenly felt a presence alarmingly close. He stopped and looked down into the eyes of the man standing no more than a metre from him, watching him like a curious child. They were so close Pete gasped audibly. It got worse though when he realised it was Lyle Tommin standing a metre from him in the middle of the street late at night.

'Evening, Mr. Tommin,' Pete recovered quickly.

'Peter,' Tommin acknowledged. There was an awkward pause, Tommin was still looking directly at Pete. 'I'm told Ted was having a meeting at his bar tonight,' he stopped again and smiled 'That man is a walking contradiction. He's smart and he fights for his town with guile…but why? Someone with such knowledge of businesses and manipulation doesn't fight so hard for the victory of controlling a tiny port,' Tommin looked around at the buildings and houses around them.

'You're asking the same questions anyone could ask about yourself,' Pete deflected. Tommin looked back suddenly.

'Feeling left out?' Pete didn't know how to answer. It wasn't that he was caught off guard, more that answering a question like that would tell Tommin something he shouldn't know. 'You aren't,' Tommin said 'you're more involved than I am.'

Pete was motionless until Tommin was out of sight. It seemed like Tommin had left him with an unfinished thought. As he began to move again he realised this had been the first time Tommin had directly spoken to him. Stranger still was that his purpose seemed to be turning the questions Pete had about Ted into doubts. It was more something he would have expected from Ted himself, turning a man's right hand into a double agent with a few subtle words. It made no sense to undermine Ted further when Tommin already so obviously intended on bringing men to crush his enemies with force. By the time he reached the bar's overhang Pete was lost in himself again, but it was Tommin not stars that dazed him. Then on the left a black shape shifted in his peripheral vision. For the second time that night the silhouette in the dark materialised as Carson. Pete stopped and stepped toward the coward. 'What are you still doing here, Carson?' 'Just here to apologise to Ted for before,' Carson stated. Something about how he said it confused Pete, it was confident and calm, almost rehearsed.

'I'll let him know,' Pete ended the conversation watching Carson. Carson got up and walked past Pete brushing against him as he passed. Pete didn't turn to watch him go, the brief exchange had been enough. The sudden confidence Carson exuded was unsettling, principally as Carson was most easily likened to a rodent on any good day. The bar was open to customers when Pete entered the building. For a small Port bar The Sinker was at its busiest that night. Nearly every bar stool and booth was occupied with people, some already well into their quota of drinks for the night. A single guitar, strumming, emanated from the back and played off the walls, such were the acoustics of the bar. One character, a regular also called Peter, stopped Pete as he breached the double doors.

'Petey, get over here and have a beer. On me,' he added moistly. Pete affected a hearty grin as he wiped off the spittle and replied.

'I'll have some if you've left me any.'

'C'mon now. Seriously,' the other Pete said hazily, trying to straighten up and look stern, 'A man can't be trusted if he chooses sober…ness over kinship a…a…and mateship and all that.'

'Sobriety? Yes I spose you're right, but Ted would knock my head clean off if he knew I drank on his time. Maybe another day,' he added to abate the man's probing.

He moved on through the drunks and the faint smoke haze of the bar. In the open area past the booths at the back of the bar the musician played a ballad, some tale of a travelling boy. Pete nodded to the player, who returned the gesture, as he ascended the bare wood staircase to Ted's office and bedroom. The door was open and Ted stood at the window with what looked like a small telescope to his eye.

'An eye to the horizon for our coming foe?' Pete offered theatrically.

'Sometimes I wish you would drink, then I'd know you could,' Ted said coldly still facing the window.

'You heard us.' Pete correctly assumed.

'No, not the horizon. A little lower, the bay,' Ted said suddenly answering the question, 'And it's the acoustics of the place, the elder Whorley made it that way for a reason,' he pointed out, again swapping between the two topics with little warning. Pete was caught dumbly wondering which of the two topics Ted cared more about: the water in the bay or his standpoint on liquor. Without looking Ted answered the question for him. 'Well I'm glad you didn't take the drink or we'd have even more difficulty conversing right now,' apparently oblivious to the common practice of the single-topic conversation. 'The bay is my main concern. There's a man in it.' Pete ended the charade. 'Pausing for another response to quip? I'd rather attend to your troubles than be verbally trumped. It's old news; your skill with thought so tell me something new, like why someone swimming in the bay concerns you on such an already trying night?'

Ted looked around at him finally. 'I never said he was _in_ the water I said he was in the bay. He's in a fishing boat and _he_ is Cole,' Ted said clearly at last. '_He_ is the only person that should've been at the meeting but wasn't,' he said continuing to stress the word "he".

'He wasn't on the list of people you told me to notify,' Pete said defensively. '_He_ wasn't invited,' Ted said. 'The point is I should have invited him but I didn't anticipate the news that came. Go, tell him I need his hardware, and tell him to go back to his office and wait for me to arrive, then come here and tell me he's ready.' 'Understood. Can I see where he is exactly,' Pete said indicating the telescope. Ted moved aside and waved him in. Putting his eye to the viewer he could see the dark waters of the bay. In the very centre of the circle of water in focus was a small black shape undulating with the waves. 'He's far out, I'll need a boat,' Pete said watching Cole's boat. 'I don't own one,' Ted said simply. 'Steal one if need be but be brisk about it, the night's getting on.'

**Stage 3: Moisture Rising **

Pete sprinted through the streets to the docks. Night-darkened buildings rushed past and empty side streets wound by as he carved his way to the waterfront. Pushed by adrenaline he ran hard, crisp cold air rushing over him. Ted wanted "brisk" only rarely but expected total speed in its issuing, so he ran like hell. Above him low clouds were tracking fast across the clear sky, foretelling a storm.

The water and boat sheds came into view. Old wood sheds and a dying pier made up the public side of the docks stretching only a few hundred metres in both directions and stopping at the beginning of Tommin's lot. The nearest shed, a fading structure with an ancient coat of sky-blue paint beckoned. Pete approached the shed and stopped. A boat…of course. It couldn't just be dragged out into the water, even a tinny or a dinghy needed two well built men to pull them to the water edge. And that was assuming one was lucky enough to find one in any one of the boat sheds on the docks. Adrenaline still fed his body, as Pete dove into the ice waters of the port and began a slow dogged freestyle toward the centre of the inlet. His tan vest, guns, shirt, shoes and socks all sat in a dark corner behind one of the sheds back at the docks. Small waves softly surging toward the coast slowed the progress but Pete was soon battling harder with the distance. Stroke after stroke, his pace seemed to be nil or negative. Ten minutes into the swim the lactic acid build-up overwhelmed his body and Pete resigned to treading water and assessing his chances. From the look of the coast it seemed like he'd made maybe 400 meters into the inlet. There was no way of telling even how far the boat was from here, the small waves and with the semi-clouded night were no help. The lighthouse on the eastern point, the gateway to the inlet, stood out in the distance shining its light to each point on the compass. It was probably another 300 meters to the very point the lighthouse stood on, a shorter distance than the way back. A well-timed shout held him back though.

From behind the low waves Pete spotted the very boat he had tried to find being paddled toward him by a diminutive figure at its bow.

'Son, you must be slower in the head than I ever suspected. Were you really trying to make the lighthouse by water?' the man from the boat grunted as he pulled Pete into the boat.

The


End file.
